The Duke Who Despised Christmas (Christmas Dukes #1)

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Q uint was still reeling from the scorching kisses he’d shared with Joceline when his mother joined him in his study. He’d abandoned the library after righting the table as best as he could, leaving the broken glass to the dutiful efforts of a chambermaid who had arrived to discreetly whisk away the lingering evidence of his sins. Of course, the girl hadn’t known what the reason was for the broken glass, nor was it her place to ask. But he had not been without guilt as he fled the scene of his crime, nor did he think he would ever be able to look upon that table again without recalling Joceline seated upon it, emerald eyes burning with passion, her lips dark and swollen from his kisses.

“My darling Sedgewick,” the dowager duchess greeted, enveloping him in a perfumed embrace that didn’t feel entirely genuine.

But then, that was how his every interaction with his mother had always been. He returned her embrace, narrowly avoiding being poked in the eye by the silk flowers and feathers adorning her extraordinarily high coiffure. His mother had forever been of the opinion that her lack of height could be countered by elaborate hair stylings. Once, to his utter horror, she had worn an entire family of stuffed birds in her hair for a ball. He’d spent the evening trying to avoid the glossy eyes of the wretched wrens, whose feathers had been dyed to match her purple silk.

“Mother,” he said stiffly, patting her back.

Their relationship had never been particularly close. She had been aloof in his childhood, content to allow him to be raised by servants and then later to send him away to school. His father had been no better. The Duke of Sedgewick had been fifteen years his mother’s senior, an austere, white-haired gentleman who had guarded his smiles and praise as if giving them would lessen his massive fortune. It had not been until Amelia had come into Quint’s life—ironically enough, in a match made by their parents—that he had begun to understand what love truly was.

“Your hair.” Mother extricated herself from his embrace and drew her shoulders back, frowning as she surveyed his appearance. “My heavens, Sedgewick, you look like Robinson Crusoe, stranded on a desert isle. It will need to be cut, of course. I cannot think your valet allows you to carry on this way.”

Until recently, he hadn’t one. He’d had Dunreave, who served as both butler and valet. Now, he had one of the footmen to assist him in shaving. But the lad hadn’t dared to speak a word against Quint’s hair, too wide-eyed from his movement up the service ladder.

“I’m not cutting my hair,” he informed her.

“And whatever are you wearing?” she asked quite as if he hadn’t spoken, her nose wrinkled as she took in the rest of him. “Where is your coat, and why are you wearing so much country tweed? I understand that you are here in the wilds of the north, but surely you have something more elegant to wear.”

He frowned down at her. “I am wearing what I wish to wear.”

She was still exhibiting a moue of distaste, her eyes returning to his hair as if it were a tragedy from which she couldn’t look away. “Fortunately, I have brought some garments up from London. I sent word to your tailor, and he was exceptionally pleased to send along a selection of coats, waistcoats, and trousers. I directed Dunreave to take them to your rooms.”

It was as if he hadn’t said a word. His mother was holding a conversation entirely with herself, making sweeping decisions as if he hadn’t the right to object. Why had he expected differently? This had been the way of it between them, his mother’s overbearing nature trampling over any objections in her way. It was one of the reasons he had buried himself away here at Blackwell Abbey. She’d had the audacity to suggest but a few days after Amelia’s funeral that when his period of mourning was over, he would need to begin looking for a new wife to breed so that he might carry on the line.

“…and you must really take better care with your appearance for Lady Diana’s sake, if for no other reason. She is considered one of the greatest beauties in Polite Society, you know. She could have her choice of any husband.”

His mother’s continued prattling sifted through Quint’s thoughts, making him snap back to attention. “What do Lady Diana’s marital prospects have to do with what I wear or whether I cut my hair, Mother?”

Suspicion curdled his gut. He ought to have known his mother hadn’t simply wanted to visit him for Christmastide. That the housekeepers she had sent him were her means of orchestrating some larger plan. That she would never be content to allow him to exist in peace.

“Nothing at all if you want to remain a bachelor hiding away in Durham, of course, and if you wish to allow some distant country cousin to become the next Duke of Sedgewick,” she said pointedly, her tone suitably dramatic.

“We have discussed this, Mother,” he reminded her tightly, clenching and unclenching his gloved hands at his sides.

“You have a duty to the title,” she insisted. “You cannot simply molder away here with this ancient estate. You must think of your obligations.”

“Is that why you have come, madam?” he demanded. “To remind me of my obligations?”

She heaved a sigh, the plumes in her silvery hair quivering. “It has been two years, Sedgewick. You are five-and-thirty. You must make another match, and you must beget an heir. To say nothing of Sedgewick Hall, which you have abandoned, and your many other duties.”

He flexed his hands again, feeling the tightness of his ruined flesh, the heaviness in his chest as if the weight of that flaming beam had fallen upon him anew. “You needn’t remind me of how much time has passed since my wife and child died.”

“Apparently, I must. The proper period of mourning is six months. A year, at most. And yet, here you remain, buried in the north for two whole years, just as surely as if you lay down in her grave alongside her,” she snapped.

Her callous words brought back memories he had valiantly sought to suppress. The sound of dirt falling on the coffin bearing what had remained of his wife and babe. The finality of the shovel striking earth. It was all returning to him now, the past at war with the present.

“I’ll mourn as I see fit,” he said, his tone harsh, but he didn’t care. “You have no right to meddle in my affairs.”

“I have no right?” She had the temerity to look affronted, a small, disbelieving laugh slipping from her. “Sedgewick, I am your mother. It is my solemn duty to remind you of yours.”

He didn’t want to think about duty or the pain of the past. All he wanted to think about right now was Joceline. He wanted—needed—to know what was between them. He wanted to see her again, kiss her again, touch her again. To be alone with her. She was all he wanted, full stop. But not only did they have the complication of their disparate stations, now they also had his mother, Lord Dreighton, and Lady Diana.

He passed a hand over his jaw, grim. “I’m more than aware of what is expected of me. I don’t need you to remind me.”

“Of course you do, Sedgewick.” His mother fluttered nearer, venturing a consoling pat on his upper arm. “I was heartened when you didn’t send the latest housekeeper I sent you away. It gave me hope that you’re ready to return to your rightful place in society.”

He didn’t wish to speak about Joceline with his mother. Nor did he want the reminder that she was his housekeeper.

“Mrs. Yorke is remarkably adept at her position,” he said politely, doing his utmost to expunge every hint of emotion from his voice.

It wouldn’t do for Mother to suspect there was something between himself and Joceline that went beyond employer and domestic.

Another light pat, as if he were one of his mother’s prized pugs gathered at her feet. “That is why I chose her. It’s my most fervent hope that you will come to your senses in other areas as well, not just the running of your household. Give Lady Diana a chance. She would make you an excellent wife.”

Good God.

It was as he’d thought. His mother was playing matchmaker. But he had no desire to be matched, damn it.

“I’m not interested in Lady Diana,” he gritted.

“But you have yet to even meet her, darling.” His mother smiled brightly. “She is a lovely young lady, and she was born and bred to be a duchess. She would do you great credit, you shall see.”

His mother was, as ever, equal parts stubborn and persistent. He knew better than to continue arguing. It would garner him nothing but more frustration.

He forced a tight smile. “I’m sure you must be exhausted after your travels. Why don’t you take a nap before dinner, Mother? Mrs. Yorke no doubt has had your chamber readied for you.”

She beamed, unaware that he only made the overture so that she might go away and grant him some peace. “That is thoughtful of you, Sedgewick dear. I do believe I shall go and have a small lie-down before dinner. Until later, my darling son.”

“Until later, Mother.”

Mercifully, she took her leave, but he knew he wasn’t to have a respite for long. Dinner loomed, far too soon. But first, there remained a flickering hope of catching Joceline alone between now and then.

Joceline bustled toward the servants’ stair when the door to the small salon nearest it opened, revealing the Duke of Sedgewick standing on the threshold. Silently, he gestured for her to join him. Her heart leapt in her throat as she cast a frantic glance about her, Mr. Dunreave’s warnings still lying heavy as a boulder on her chest. No one was in sight, so with a sigh, she slipped into the salon with him, closing the door smartly at her back.

“Your Grace,” she began, “what is it you want from me? Dinner is soon set to begin, and I have many tasks awaiting me.”

He towered over her, his impressive height all the more pronounced in his black evening attire. He had dressed for dinner, she realized, a white neckcloth tied at his throat. She’d thought him handsome before, but the Duke of Sedgewick in formal blacks was enough to induce her to swoon.

“I wanted to speak to you,” he said urgently, his blue-green gaze settling on her mouth.

She licked her lips, remembering the wondrous sensation of his sullen mouth on hers, so tender and possessive, and then banishing the yearning that rose up within her. She couldn’t allow herself to fall back into his arms. Couldn’t allow herself to linger here with him, where temptation beckoned and she could touch him again with such ease.

“Does it concern the running of the household?” she dared to ask, forcing herself to be stern with him.

“You know it doesn’t.”

She spun away, moving toward the door. “Then I’m afraid I must?—”

His hand on her elbow stopped her.

“Stay,” he begged, the raw emotion in his plea making her turn back to him.

What she saw reflected on his countenance—the naked yearning, the hunger that had sparked to life deep within her as well—tested her ability to resist him.

“Your Grace, your mother is in residence,” she protested, “along with guests. It is most improper for me to linger here with you.”

“To the devil with propriety.” He slid his hand down her forearm in a maddening caress, his leather-clad fingers finding hers as their palms connected. “You are my housekeeper. I can speak with you whenever I want.”

“Mr. Dunreave is already suspicious,” she forced herself to say. “I dare not risk being seen leaving the same room as you so soon after what happened earlier today.”

“What was it that happened, Joceline?” he asked, his voice low and soft as velvet.

She inhaled sharply against a rush of desire. “I spent far too much time with you in the library and missed the arrival of the dowager duchess, the earl, and Lady Diana. That is what happened.”

“No.” He shook his head, his fingers tightening on hers. “It was far more than that. Admit it. Say it aloud.”

He was so close, his scent wrapping around her. His gaze was on her lips, and she was remembering every moment of his passionate kisses, his hot tongue in her mouth. His own lips had parted, and he was breathing raggedly, as if it required every bit of strength he possessed to keep from devouring her again as he had on the library table. She swayed toward him, her skirts gliding against his trousers, her chatelaine tinkling.

“I cannot,” she whispered, dangerously close to the precipice already, from nothing more than his proximity and her hand in his. “ We cannot.”

But the duke was determined. He caught her chin in his other hand, his hold firm but tender, his thumb tracing the slight dimple there.

“I’ve been thinking of nothing but you from the moment you left my side,” he murmured.

“Your Grace,” she protested, her voice as weak as her defenses.

For even as she tried to summon the faces of her mother and her younger siblings, all she could see was the way the Duke of Sedgewick was looking at her now, as if he wanted to take her in his arms and carry her away.

“Tell me you’ve not been doing the same,” he challenged, his thumb trailing along the edge of her bottom lip.

A whimper escaped her. He was too much. How was she to resist him when he was setting her aflame? When he was handsome and vulnerable, when his eyes were slumberous with desire and the promise of so much more? She wasn’t strong enough. She couldn’t do it.

“Tell me to kiss you, Joceline.”

Her eyes fluttered closed, trying to shut him out. Perhaps she could summon her defenses if she couldn’t see his face, stark with an intoxicating blend of hunger and tenderness.

“I can’t,” she said, even as every part of her longed to say the words.

“I won’t kiss you until you tell me you want it too,” he murmured, moving his thumb along the bow of her upper lip now.

His touch swept over the seam of her lips, and a cry tore from her, because she couldn’t bear another moment of denying him. Her eyes flew open, their stares melding. His head was bent toward hers, his dark-gold hair falling around the sharp angles of his face.

“I want it,” she admitted quietly. “I want it too.”

His hand moved to cup her cheek, and then his mouth was on hers, triumphant, demanding. His tongue slid deep, and low in her belly, a warmth unfurled. They kissed as if they were starved for each other. As if each press of their lips would be the last, tongues writhing, mouths open and voracious.

Their hands remained entwined, and he drew hers between them, flattening her palm over his heart so that she could feel his heat seeping into her, the frantic pace beating. His coat was smooth and fine, his chest a wall of muscle, and oh, the freedom to touch him—a wondrous gift. Her other hand settled on his shoulder as their lips moved as one. But that wasn’t enough. She wanted to feel more of him. Wanted to know if his hair was as soft and smooth as it looked. So she slid her fingers along the rigid blade of his shoulder, then higher to his neck, and higher still, grasping a handful of his sleek hair.

He groaned and broke the kiss, his teeth nipping at her lower lip. The action was so carnal and animalistic, a far cry from the elegant, icy duke she had come to know. It was as if he sought to consume her. But she understood the feeling, because it was echoed deep within her. She wanted to tear off his clothes and see his scars. To run her lips over him, to lick him, to sink her teeth into him and leave a mark. She wanted him to be hers.

That can never be , said a voice inside her.

“I need to return before I’m missed,” she forced herself to protest, even if the words felt sacrilegious after everything that had passed between them.

But she needed to remind herself of who she was, what she was. Needed to remind him, too. And the longer she tarried here in this salon, trading stolen kisses with him, the greater the peril for the both of them.

“Come to me tonight after everyone is abed,” he murmured. “Come to my chamber. I’ll be waiting for you.”

His invitation shocked and intrigued her. The very notion of going to his bedroom was forbidden and yet so potently tempting that a rush of liquid need settled between her thighs, making her knees tremble.

“You know I cannot do that,” she denied, even as she wanted to more than she wanted anything. “If I were to be seen, it would be disastrous for the both of us.”

Something flickered in his gaze, but then he kissed her again. Kissed her and kissed her until she forgot her objections. Until she forgot the past, the present, the future. Forgot anything that wasn’t his mouth on hers, his body pressing into hers, insistent and masculine and so very big and strong.

When he ended the kiss, she was mindless and breathless, uncertain if she could even remain standing on her own two feet without clinging shamelessly to him for support.

He cupped her cheek, holding her captive in his unique stare, their lips a scant inch apart. “I need you longer, Joceline. I want you without worrying that we’ll be interrupted.”

The temptation was there, so very strong. She wanted to tell him yes . To throw caution to the wind and follow her heart instead of her head as she had these last nine years. And yet, she had far too many responsibilities, her younger siblings not old enough to earn their way, and her mother having no means of supporting them without abandoning them. She couldn’t allow her brother and sisters to be torn apart. They depended upon her.

“I don’t dare,” she told him softly, sadly, wishing their circumstances were different. “The risk is far too great. I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

Reluctantly, she forced herself to step away from him, the mantel clock chiming to tell her that she needed to go at once. They hadn’t any time left.

“I’m sorry,” she added, eyes welling with tears she blinked furiously away.

“Joceline,” he implored again, looking as stricken as she felt. “Please.”

Shaking her head, she moved swiftly from the room, dabbing at her eyes with the back of her hand to remove all evidence of the emotions she couldn’t allow herself to feel.

The Duke of Sedgewick was not for her, and there was no better confirmation of that than when she passed by Mr. Dunreave in the servants’ hall, his gaze calculating and shimmering with new suspicion.

Lady Diana Collingham was a flaxen-haired beauty. A true English rose with a porcelain complexion, sky-blue eyes, and a rosebud mouth that seemed to be perpetually turned upward in a smug smile. And why shouldn’t she be smug, Joceline thought crossly as she made her way to her small bedroom, feet aching to rival her back. She was young and unfailingly lovely, she was a fine lady, and she was dressed in the comeliest silk gowns Joceline had ever seen, confections that would have put her cousins to shame.

She was also hoping to become the next Duchess of Sedgewick.

The latter had been made as plain as the chapped, work-roughened skin on Joceline’s hands after enduring three days of presiding over every meal and entertainment for the duke and his guests. True to her word, she had managed to keep her distance from him, playing her role flawlessly, leaving no room for Mr. Dunreave to find fault with her after her lapses of sanity in the salon and library.

She faced her duties with a new resolve, doing her utmost to contain the burning, agonizing jealousy that sliced through her whenever she found herself in the same room as the gorgeous Lady Diana. Because although she knew it was wrong and that it was certainly no fault of the lady’s that their stations in life were so dissimilar, Joceline hated the constant reminder that she was the kind of woman a duke kissed secretly behind closed doors, but Lady Diana was the kind of woman a duke would marry.

And for his part, Sedgewick seemed to have accepted her denial of his overtures. No more furtive embraces in shadowy rooms. No more invitations to his bedroom. Instead, he was occupied by escorting Lady Diana about and by accompanying his mother. It was just as well, she had told herself, trying to ignore the deep sense of disappointment the realization inevitably caused.

At least she could be secure in her situation. No one would sack her. She could remain the housekeeper at least for a year, at which point the duke might be newly wed or about to marry, and she could collect her bounty. She would move on to a new position before the pain of watching Sedgewick take a wife and begin a family.

With a heavy sigh, she entered her darkened chamber, where the only light was from the small, flickering fire in the grate, closing the door behind her. And instantly noticed the large, undeniably masculine figure in the shadows.

A gasp tore from her.

“Hush,” came Sedgewick’s familiar voice, a low, decadent rumble that made her heart leap. “You have no notion how difficult it was for me to sneak into your chamber.”

She pressed a hand over her wildly beating heart, trying to suppress the sheer joy that had risen within her at his presence, regardless of how wrong and dangerous it was. “Your Grace, you shouldn’t be here.”

He stood to his full height, towering over her, so tall that his head nearly reached the low ceiling of her room. “I know, but I had to find a way of seeing you since you didn’t come to me, and I didn’t want to risk during the day with the earl, my mother, and Lady Diana all underfoot.”

His voice was quiet, and she was grateful that he was indeed taking care. But he was here, in her room! He had been sitting on her bed. If Mr. Dunreave were to find out…

“No one will sack you, Joceline,” Sedgewick reassured her as if he could read her thoughts, moving to stand before her. “I promise you that. You needn’t fear for your position.”

She wetted her lips. “But Mr. Dunreave?—”

“Is also in my employ,” he interrupted firmly. “I understand your trepidation where your character is concerned, but please know you may be my housekeeper until you choose otherwise.”

His words did somewhat assuage her fear that Mr. Dunreave would see her sacked. However, his presence in her bedroom was still forbidden.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “But you must go. You cannot be in my private room.”

“Do you want me to go?” he asked.

She closed her eyes for a moment, blotting out the sight of him, but it didn’t aid her ability to resist him this time any more than the last. “Your Grace…”

“Quint,” he murmured. “When we are alone, I would have you call me Quint.”

It wasn’t the first time he had offered the invitation, of course. But she had been forcing herself to think of him as the Duke of Sedgewick, regardless of the intimacy he so temptingly offered.

She opened her eyes again to find him looking down at her with such naked yearning that an ache sprang forth deep within her. “You know I can’t. Allowing familiarity between us is foolish.”

“Is it?” He took her hands in his, and she allowed it, wanting his touch even as she knew she shouldn’t. “Why is it foolish? Tell me.”

“You know why. Because you are a duke, and I am your servant. It is simply not done.”

“I don’t care about what society thinks is proper.”

“As a duke, you have that liberty,” she reminded him. “As a housekeeper, I do not.”

“I don’t think I ever despised the shackles my title places upon me, at least not truly. Not until now.”

They stared at each other, silent meaning passing between them, hunger sparking to life, dangerous and heady. The illicit nature of their meeting, the shadows in her room, the flickering fire, the small quarters—all contributed to cast a sensual spell over her.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, desperate to keep these unwanted feelings at bay, to resist him.

“I want…” His words trailed off for a moment as his gaze devoured her face. “I want to court you.”

A hysterical laugh bubbled up from within her. “You cannot court your housekeeper.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t belong to your world. Because I have too many duties awaiting me, and I must attend your household and guests. Because you are meant to court a beautiful aristocrat like Lady Diana.”

She could have gone on listing reasons, but she stopped herself, for her emotions were running too high, like the waters of a rain-swelled stream threatening to flood its banks.

“Joceline.” He brought her hands up, kissing her knuckles, which ached from stoning raisins and pounding lump sugar earlier that evening. “Please allow me to explain myself, if I may.”

How could she deny him when he was so vulnerable before her? His expression was earnest, and he clung to her fingers as if she were the rarest, most precious treasure he had ever beheld. He was still wearing his evening finery from dinner, cutting an elegant figure. For a wild moment, she wished that she had been seated with him at the dining table. That they had conversed and flirted and she had worn something suitably lovely, a silk evening gown trimmed with flowers instead of a gray woolen frock covered with an apron.

“Go on,” she allowed against her better judgment, for she knew the longer she allowed him to remain here in her space, the harder it would be for her to fight against her intense attraction to him.

“I don’t want to court Lady Diana. I don’t want anyone but you.” He paused, shaking his head as if he were perplexed, trying to sift his thoughts together into some semblance of order. “I never expected to feel this way. It confounds me and astounds me, but I cannot help it. You are all I can think about. When I wake up, I cannot wait to see you.”

“Please,” she interjected, not certain if she could bear to hear more, for it was everything she had secretly yearned to hear. “You needn’t say more.”

“But I do need,” he insisted, squeezing her fingers gently. “Do you not see? I am nothing but raw, aching need, and the fault is yours. I spend all day hoping for a fleeting sight of you, for a shared glance. I go to sleep at night thinking of you, imagining your glorious black hair unbound, wondering if it’s as soft and silken as I think it is. I didn’t want this. I didn’t ask for it.”

The vehemence of his tone cut away at her defenses.

“I didn’t want it either,” she protested. “Nor did I ask for it. I came to Blackwell Abbey to be your housekeeper, that is all.”

And a part of her was begging him to allow her to continue to be nothing more than just his servant, that part of Joceline that was mired in obligation. The part that had been diligently working to send everything she could home. But the rest of her—the selfish, longing, foolish part of her—needed to hear him acknowledge what he felt. To hear the full extent of how strongly he was drawn to her. Because she felt the same relentless pull.

“But you are far more than that now, Joceline,” he said, his voice low and beseeching. “Do you not see? I have spent these last few weeks fighting it with all I have. Denying what I feel. I was perfectly content in my misery—or at least, I thought I was. But then you came here with your sunny smiles and your stunning cheek, and your garlands and your bloody trees. You unlocked a part of me I thought was gone, brought it back to the light, and I don’t know how to be this man again, a man who can find happiness and hope after so much loss and grief. I don’t know what it means, what I feel for you. All I know is that I think I’m in lo?—”

“No,” she cried out, interrupting his declaration before he could complete it, for it was too painful. She wanted it too much, with a desperation that terrified her. She couldn’t have it.

But that was immaterial. For now, she would seize what she could.

Joceline threw herself at him. Into him. Their bodies collided as she rose to her toes and pressed her mouth over his, kissing him, showing him what she didn’t dare to acknowledge with words. Because quite suddenly, it didn’t matter what would happen tomorrow. It didn’t matter that she was a servant in his employ and he was a wealthy duke who was far above her station. It didn’t even matter if she had to find a different situation for herself.

She had fallen in love with the Duke of Sedgewick.

She loved this beautiful, broken, imperfect man who had suffered unimaginable loss and tragedy. And she intended to show him just how much, even if tonight was all she could ever have with him.

Their entwined hands came apart, hers settling on his broad chest, his on her waist. Their kisses were frantic and deep, hard and hot. She quickly grew impatient, needing more. She glided her fingers under his coat, helping him to shrug out of it. The garment slid to the floor with a whisper of sound as she settled on the buttons of his waistcoat. And even though her hands were tired and sore from her tasks that day, she worked those buttons out of their moorings with absurd, unerring haste, stripping him of that boundary as well as she opened for his questing tongue.

She was not the only one exploring, caressing. His fingers found the fastening of her chatelaine, but when she felt him fumbling, she broke the kiss. “Allow me.”

Joceline made short work of removing the pin holding it in place at her waist, laying it carefully upon a tabletop for tomorrow’s use, her heart giving a pang at the thought that their time together would be so brief.

“My gloves,” he murmured, flexing his fingers before him, staring at the leather coverings he still donned to shield his scars from others.

“Will you remove them for me?” she asked gently.

He hesitated, indecision flashing on his handsome face.

“I saw your hands before,” she reminded him. “But if you prefer to keep them on, I understand.”

“No.” A muscle tensed in his wide jaw. “I want to feel you.”

The sweet thrill of anticipation went through her, an ache pulsing to life between her thighs. “Yes.”

She watched as he stripped them off himself, revealing the puckered skin on his big hands, his fingers long and thick. To her, the scars were a symbol of his honor. The reminder that he had fought so valiantly to save the woman he loved. And Joceline loved him all the more for it.

She took his hands in hers, and, as he had done earlier, brought them to her lips.

“You needn’t?—”

His protest died as she kissed his hands, his knuckles, his fingertips, then turned them over, kissing his scarred palms as well.

“Joceline.” His voice was soft as velvet and smooth as silk, filled with so much raw need that it made liquid desire pool low in her belly.

She kissed him some more, and then when she was breathless with longing, she brought his hands to her breasts, pressing them to her bodice, where, beneath the shield of her corset, her nipples were hard and almost painfully sensitive.

“Will you undress me, Quint?” she asked, allowing herself the freedom of using his given name.

He lowered his head and seized her lips as he found the fastening of her simple bodice, opening it as he kissed her. There had always been an efficient economy in removing her garments for Joceline. The movements served a purpose. The quicker they were done, the sooner she could go to sleep and rest for the new day and all its waiting work. But there was such heady, potent luxury in having Quint undress her. She wanted it to go on forever, his caresses moving over tapes and buttons and hooks. But she also wanted it to end swiftly so that she could feel his skin on hers.

Remembering that she was not the only one who needed her clothing undone, she returned to his neckcloth, her tongue tangling with his as she tugged at the knot and pulled the linen free. She stepped out of her skirts and petticoat, feeling the heavy fabric glide down her hips to pool around her booted feet on the floor.

He raised his head then, breathing as harshly as she was, his stare glinting with undisguised passion. “Sit on the bed.”

She didn’t understand his request, her wits too addled from his kisses and his hands on her. “Why?” she managed, confused.

“You are always tending to me,” he explained, kissing her jaw, her nose, her cheek before straightening again. “It is my turn to tend to you.”

Protest was ingrained in her. This beautiful duke should not be waiting upon her. But he folded her hand in his, and the delicious intimacy of his skin on hers overtook any need to object as he guided her the three steps to her narrow bed.

She sat on the edge, watching in bemusement as he sank to his knees before her and lifted her right foot, settling the sturdy sole on his thigh. With calm, efficient motions, he untied the laces, loosened her boot, and slid it off. She made a soft sound of pleasure, flexing her toes, and he rubbed her stockinged foot, somehow unerringly finding all the places that pained her and soothing them. She hoped he didn’t notice the repairs she’d made to her stockings, nor the coarse, cheap quality of them. But if he did, he didn’t comment upon it, his strong fingers expertly kneading her arch instead.

“How does that feel?” he asked.

“Heavenly,” she admitted.

“Good.” The smile he sent her was at once both boyish and wicked, dimples grooving his cheeks. “My God, you are so beautiful.”

His praise warmed her, and though she knew she must look a far cry from the elegant Lady Diana in her simple drawers and stockings, her plain corset and chemise, her hair pinned away in the same easy chignon she twisted it into herself each morning, she felt beautiful.

She smiled back at him. “Thank you.”

In truth, she thanked him for so much more than his tender ministrations on her foot. But emotions and yearning and rising desire robbed her of the ability to elucidate. So she simply watched as he moved to her left boot, untying the laces and pulling it free as well before rubbing this stockinged foot also.

“I’ve been thinking about doing this for days,” he said, taking an ankle in each hand and rubbing her calves.

“You have?” She sighed with bliss as he found muscles she hadn’t even known were tight and sore, tenderly working them into submission.

“Ever since you kissed me.” He caressed higher, along her outer thighs, moving under her chemise as he went. “I wouldn’t allow myself to think of it before then, for fear that you didn’t feel what I do.”

“I feel it too,” she confessed, inhaling when he framed her hips and tugged her forward with a swift yank, almost pulling her completely from the bed.

He kissed her knee over the white cotton of her drawers, his fingers finding the buttons on her waistband and plucking them free. “I didn’t dare to hope.”

Her drawers loosened, and he pulled on them. She lifted her bottom to aid him in his efforts, the undergarments slipping free. Although her chemise remained in place about her knees, covering her modesty, her thighs pressed together, a new sense of intimacy fell over her. He was going to see her—all of her.

And she wanted him to.

What a sinner she was. Her garters came undone, first one, then the other, and he dragged each one slowly, deliciously, down her leg, and she no longer cared. Instead, she admired him, so powerful and elegant in his shirtsleeves and trousers, the firelight dancing off his dark-gold hair as it swept over his face while he finished his task.

Reaching behind her, she snagged the laces of her corset and pulled, untying this knot as well, for if she didn’t soon loosen it, she feared she wouldn’t be able to breathe. Her heart was pounding, her lungs struggling to keep up with the demands of her body. The stays sagged, giving her relief, and she undid the hooks and eyes at the busk with practiced ease.

The corset fell to the bed, leaving her in only her worn chemise, which she knew to be quite transparent from years of washing without replacing it. His gaze darkened, falling to the swells of her breasts, heavy and full, her nipples jutting toward him through the thin fabric.

With a groan, he moved closer, releasing his hold on her legs to cup the mounds of her breasts in his hands. His head dipped, and he took the aching peak of one into his mouth, sucking hard.

A small sound of pleasure tore from her before she could help herself, for she felt that delicious pull deep in her core. He kissed the curve of her breast and then moved to the other, suckling that one as well.

It was good, so good, but not enough. She wanted his mouth on her without cloth between them. Grasping handfuls of her chemise, she pulled it to her waist. The movement dislodged him from her breast, but he understood what she was doing, sensual approval on his face as he watched her pull the chemise from under her bottom and then lift it over her head.

“Forgive me,” he murmured. “I was too eager.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

She threw the undergarment over her shoulder, not caring where it went, and, holding his stare, reached for the hairpins keeping her unruly curls in submission. Heavy tendrils fell as she removed the pins, stacking them in her palm until she was finished and a curtain of hair fell down her back.

“Joceline.” His voice was hoarse and raw, tinged with amazement and awe.

She’d never been naked like this with a man before, and she knew she ought to feel some need for modesty. That she should cover herself—or, at the very least, lie beneath the bedclothes and await him rather than to put her body on bold display. But the hungry look he gave her was all she needed to know he appreciated her boldness.

That and the way he insinuated himself between her thighs, nudging them apart, and with a sound of pure carnal delight, took her nipple in his mouth again. This time, she was rewarded with wet heat, the play of his tongue. She arched her back, offering herself to him, giving him so much more than just her body. Giving him her heart, herself, all that she had to give.

She ran her fingers through his hair, and he laved indecent attention upon first one breast, then the other.

“Quint,” she whispered, the sound of her own breathing and the suction of his mouth joining the popping of the fire to make wicked music.

Every part of her was intensely aware, her senses almost painfully acute.

He moved back to her other breast. “So beautiful. More beautiful than I imagined.”

She bit her lip to keep from making more noise, mesmerized by the sight of his handsome face nestled against her, his mouth on her nipple. She was melting. Mindless. His hands were in her hair, running through the strands with such reverence, as if they were fashioned of gold, his tongue flicking over the distended peak of her breast. And then he kissed a path of fire down her rib cage, his mouth finding the indentation of her navel, his hands guiding her legs farther apart, lips traveling lower still. Nothing could have prepared her for the kiss he pressed there, between her legs, in that most sensitive place of all.

Good heavens. His mouth was… He was… His tongue. His tongue?

Sweet God, his tongue .

He was devouring her as if she were a feast, lustily licking and kissing and sucking, spreading her folds with his thumbs, moaning into her, the vibration echoing in the bud of her sex.

A squeak emerged from her. She clapped a hand over her mouth. It was sinful. She was sure it was wrong, what he was doing, but she was also sure that nothing had ever felt as good, nor had any sin been more worthwhile, than the Duke of Sedgewick on his knees before her, face buried between her legs, tongue coaxing the sort of pleasure from her she’d never previously known existed.

She was embarrassingly wet between her legs, a state that was only heightened by his tongue, which was circling, licking, driving her ever closer to the edge of some dark and dangerous height. He licked lower, his tongue swirling over her entrance, then dipping inside, and her hips bucked when his thumb rolled over the small bundle that only she had ever teased. The poor footman hadn’t known how to please a woman any more than she had known how to please a man.

The pleasure was wondrous. Impossible. His tongue glided deeper, in and out, as his thumb swirled. And the pleasure roared over her, fast and intense as a runaway locomotive on a track.

Her body seized, bliss ricocheting up and down her spine. She bit her palm to keep from screaming, wave after wave of ecstasy washing over her. And still, he was relentless, tonguing her, working her nub, until somehow his mouth had returned, and he was suckling as he had her breast, only this time it was the most secret part of her, and the tip of his finger traced over her seam, finding her channel with ease. He plunged into her effortlessly, the stretch a shock—it had been years for her since she had hastily coupled, scarcely even knowing what was happening, still fully clothed.

But this, oh this. It was glorious. A second finger joined the first, probing, sliding in and out, then in deeper and deeper. Meanwhile, his mouth was locked on her bud, sucking sweetly, so sweetly, the sound of him taking his fill of her mingling with her ragged breaths. She felt the demanding pressure of his teeth then, in a place where she was particularly sensitive, timed with the drive of a third finger, and everything inside her shattered. She came with a strangled cry and a wet rush from her core, and as the bliss undulated through her ravished body, he kissed her inner thigh tenderly, his lips glistening with her desire.

“So sweet, Joceline,” he said, dispelling any lingering hint of self-consciousness she might have been harboring. “You taste even better than I’d hoped.”

His fingers were still inside her, stretching her, filling her. But that wasn’t enough. Unlike that lone time from her past, she didn’t wish the physical joining to end. There was no pain, only astonishing pleasure. His gaze was on her sex, watching, she thought, the way she gripped those fingers, her inner muscles still convulsing, though with less fury now than they originally had.

“Are you a virgin, Joceline?” he asked softly, those knowing fingers still pumping inside her, drawing more sensation from her when she thought it impossible there could be more.

“No,” she answered honestly. “Many years ago, when I was young…I was foolish…”

It felt strange to speak of such matters when he was lodged inside her, and yet the pressure he was renewing deep within her was so glorious she didn’t care. She thought that she might do anything he asked of her, answer any question, run naked about all of Blackwell Abbey if he but requested, just for more of this.

“Hush,” he said, kissing her sex again, his fingers gliding free. “It doesn’t matter other than that I’m quite desperate. I didn’t want to hurt you.” Another kiss, reverent, the swipe of his tongue over her highly sensitized bud.

“You won’t hurt me,” she promised, not even sure if it was true.

Last time, it had not been pleasant. Intervening years had fogged her memory. She’d forgotten the experience, the young man. It hadn’t mattered—her life had been given to service. And it no longer mattered now. She didn’t even care if Quint caused her pain. She just wanted him.

He stood abruptly, tearing at the fall of his trousers, and then his cock emerged, thick and long and ready. That part of him was untouched by flame, and much larger than the footman’s had been. Much, much larger.

“Lie back on the bed, love,” he said, his voice strained with tamped-down desire.

Love.

Oh, how that lone word felt, landing directly in her heart. If only it could be forever hers, if he could be forever hers. But there wasn’t time to reflect upon that now. They needed to finish what they had begun.

She did as he bid, lying on the bed, her legs still dangling down the side, the position awkward. But then he took her ankles in a firm but gentle grasp, guiding her legs along his chest, and he pulled her bottom against him so that the ruddy head of his cock glanced over her folds.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

She stared up at him, thinking him so handsome, her brooding duke who had endured so much. Loving him.

“I’m ready,” she said.

He moved, the cords in his neck standing in relief, and there was pressure at her entrance. A flex of his hips, and he was inside her, and filling her even fuller than his fingers had, so deep and so perfect. There was a twinge as her body adjusted to this new invasion, but when he moved, slowly at first, and then with faster, harder thrusts, he began stoking the flames of her pleasure once more. The angle, the sturdy feeling of him behind her legs, the sight of his handsome face tightened with pleasure as he made love to her—it was all so much.

She was weightless, a creature of pleasure rather than drudgery, and it was as if she were a phoenix in that moment on her small bed in the dark confines of her bedroom. No longer a housekeeper, but a goddess rising from the ashes. He murmured to her, his hands on her hips, pulling her into him, his thick shaft driving deep, then withdrawing, then driving deep again.

Joceline was perilously near to splintering apart. To crying out so that all the household could hear her, everyone above stairs and below. She caught a handful of bedclothes and pressed them over her mouth just in time for her body to fly apart again, her inner walls contracting on him as spasms of bliss rocketed through her. He groaned and hastened his pace, faster, harder, until he stiffened and surged deep, his cock pulsing inside her as the heat of his release jetted into her body.

As swiftly as he had entered her, he withdrew, somehow arranging her on the bed so that her head was on the pillow where it belonged and her legs no longer dangled over the edge. And then he joined her, folding his big body against hers on the tiny mattress, drawing her into his protective warmth.

It was in that moment that she realized he’d never fully removed his clothing and he was still wearing his shirt and trousers. She’d yet to see all his scars.

Carefully, she turned so that she faced him, and they lay nose-to-nose, their breaths mingling, lips dangerously close. She traced a finger down the line of buttons bisecting his shirt. “Will you show me?”

“Joceline,” he began.

But she kissed him swiftly. “Please. I want to see you.”

Clenching his jaw, he nodded. “Promise you won’t run and hide when you see the monster you’ve just given yourself to?”

Oh, how her heart ached to hear him speak of himself thus.

She kissed him again before breaking away to stare earnestly into his eyes. “I know the man I’ve given myself to, and he’s not a monster at all. He’s brave and strong and good.”

He cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking. “Sweet girl. I’m none of those things. I’m old and bitter and scarred.”

“Not so old,” she denied. “And I do believe my Christmas greenery has cured you of some of your bitterness.” She kept her tone light and teasing, cherishing this newfound intimacy between them, so different from what had come before. “And as for your scars, they are what make you who you are.”

And I love that man.

But these were words she kept to herself, for such a confession would reveal far more to him than she had with her mere body. And nothing had changed beyond the four walls of her small, shadowy room. He was still her employer. She was still his housekeeper. In the morning, she would rise to a new day of duties, and he would share breakfast with a glorious English rose eminently more suited to be his duchess.

She refused to allow any of that to ruin the time they had remaining.

“You’re certain you wish to see me?” he asked, his tone hesitant, a far cry from the icy, sneering duke who had first greeted her at Blackwell Abbey weeks ago.

Now, he was Quint. Her Quint. Vulnerable and warm and wonderful, holding her in his arms.

“I’m certain,” she told him without faltering.

He nodded, edging away from her slightly, for there wasn’t much room on her narrow bed. His left hand went to the buttons at his throat, opening them slowly, his fingers struggling.

She moved to help him. “Let me.”

He swallowed hard, and she tracked the movement of his Adam’s apple, rising and falling, his body going still as he allowed her to pull each fastening from its mooring, one by one, until she had reached the waistband of his trousers, where his falls had been halfheartedly restored, his spent cock tucked away. A swath of his chest and lean abdomen were revealed to her, alternately smooth and puckered, leaving no doubt of the agony he must have suffered during his convalescence.

It was incredible he had survived at all, and that was plain to see, as was the place where the beam had fallen, almost neatly across his torso. She smoothed the twain ends of his shirt farther apart, revealing more of him. His flat male nipples had been largely unscathed, so too his collarbone and pectorals. But just beneath, the raised, red flesh that had been burned was there, a testament to the strength and bravery she’d told him he possessed.

“You see?” he said darkly. “A monster. I warned you.”

“No.” She kissed his chest. Lower. Moved down his body, her lips traveling over every bit of scarred flesh. “Never a monster.” More kisses as he tensed and held still beneath her. “You are a beautiful man. My beautiful man.”

The last few words were foolish, escaping her before she could think better of them, regardless of the fact that she felt them to her marrow. He could never truly be hers. But for this one night, he was.

A breath hissed from him as she found his navel, which had been untouched by flame, and then she worked the buttons on his trousers, pulling them down his hips along with his drawers. He helped her, tearing them off and shrugging out of his shirt, finally as gloriously naked as she, his cock already erect and stiff again.

Feeling bold, she encircled him with her hand in a gentle grasp, reveling in the newness of his skin, soft and hot, yet his member so rigid beneath. An answering ache throbbed to life within her. She wanted him again. Where he was concerned, she was greedy. If this was to be the only time she had him to herself, in her bed, she intended to make the most of it. And she wanted to show him how she felt for him, how his scars only made her desire him—and love him—more.

Quint held his breath as Joceline tentatively stroked his erect cock. Her touch was light, untutored. She might not have been a virgin, but it was apparent she hadn’t a great deal of experience. Never mind. He would take great pleasure in teaching her.

He wrapped his hand around hers, showing her how to increase the pressure, moving her hand up and down his length, heedless of his scars. They didn’t matter now. For the first time, they felt like they were a part of him rather than something that had happened to him. It had taken him two years to find this peaceful state of acceptance, along with the determination of one tenderhearted woman who hadn’t allowed him to wallow in bitterness.

When she touched him, he felt whole again. When she kissed his scars without revulsion, her soft lips feathering over the ruined flesh, he felt only desire for her. Love for her, too. So much love.

He would tell her.

He would marry her.

She couldn’t be his housekeeper any longer. Not after this. But he couldn’t think properly with her hand on his shaft, which was thickening and longing for her again, moisture seeping from the slit in his crown. He had denied himself pleasure for so long, and rediscovering it with Joceline felt like nothing less than a miracle.

She felt like a miracle, too.

A miracle of inky hair and silken pink lips, of lush breasts and full hips and emerald eyes, of drab gowns and chatelaines, of mercy and understanding, of kindness and fortitude. A miracle somehow sent to him, his own Christmas gift. The best one he would ever receive.

“Like this?” she asked softly, her hand moving along his cock.

“Yes,” he hissed on a groan. “Just like that, sweetheart.”

He released her hand, allowing her to pleasure him at her own pace now, running his fingers through the thick, raven curls she kept pinned in her sensible chignons. Her glistening eyes met his, and she kissed his chest, her lips feathering over his hideous scars, healing every expanse of twisted skin she touched, a benediction.

For a few moments, he allowed himself the luxury of her mouth, her touch. Nothing more than his thudding heart, her questing lips, and her confident hand. Gratitude swept over him, mingling with all the other sensations, a rush so strong that it swelled inside his chest, making him catch his breath.

She paused over his heart, casting an inquisitive glance in his direction. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” he told her thickly, cupping her nape and urging her toward him. “Everything is right. So very right.”

He brought her lips to his and kissed her deeply, his tongue slipping inside the velvet heat of her mouth. She was sweet, so sweet. He could kiss her forever and never grow weary of it. What a blessing she was, this lively, clever woman. He might have known she would embrace her sensuality with the same pragmatism she applied to the managing of his household. Her tongue plundered his mouth in return, and she moaned softly with delight, her hand on him moving with increasing urgency.

If he didn’t take care, he would spill before he was even inside her again.

He couldn’t have that. Quint shifted her, breaking the kiss, positioning her so that she was astride him, the full, ripe globes of her breasts dangling in his face like a taunt. So he took one stiff nipple into his mouth and sucked, his fingers slipping into her folds to find her slick and wet. His seed leaked from her entrance, blending with her dew, and he found the combination of the two of them deeply rousing. He toyed with her cunny, painting the creamy spend over the petals of her sex and the swollen nub of her clitoris until she writhed, another small moan leaving her kiss-bruised lips.

Quint released her nipple, thinking how glorious she looked, glossy-eyed and beautiful, her pale skin bathed in the firelight’s glow, her body curved and soft and womanly, her hair a midnight cloud spilling down her back and over her shoulders.

“Again?” he rasped, reminding himself that he had already made love to her with great abandon once and that he must consider her comfort.

But he needn’t have worried. Joceline was tantalizing the head of his cock with her thumb, rocking against his hand, the fringe of her lashes low as she gave him a sultry look. “Again.”

She didn’t need to tell him twice.

Quint grasped her hips and lifted her, positioning her so that she was above his rudely protruding cock, which demanded more of her, all of her, without end. He wanted her to ride him. To take her pleasure.

But she hovered over him, an expression of adorable befuddlement on her face. A new position for her, then.

“Put my cock inside you,” he told her.

She rose on her knees, shifting, her grasp on his cock still tight and wonderful. “Like this?”

She dragged the sensitive tip of him up and down her center, slicking him with the moisture seeping from her. It was the two of them, their pleasure, their desire, commingling and becoming one. And for a moment, he lost his breath, a bolt of lust and possession so crazed and potent tearing through him that he could do nothing, say nothing.

“Just like that,” he managed tightly, struggling to control himself.

She slid his cock down her cleft, bringing the head of him to her center. Warm wetness bathed the tip, making him clench his jaw. Then she lowered herself onto him, taking all of him at once, and he was deep inside her again, surrounded by her heat and her tight channel, and he nearly shouted out victoriously to the rafters.

At the last moment, he recalled himself, settling for sucking her other nipple into his mouth instead. Her hands landed on his shoulders for purchase, and he kept his grip on her hips, guiding her into a pace that she quickly made her own. He couldn’t keep himself from moving with her, meeting her thrust for thrust as he suckled both breasts, her hair fanning over them like a silken curtain.

Her pinnacle caught him by surprise, swift and sudden, her inner muscles clenching so tightly she nearly squeezed him from her. Holding her still, he rocked upward, into her, absorbing every ripple of her release, the slickness of her cunny taking him to the verge as well. She felt like heaven on earth, and he never wanted this to end.

She cried out more loudly than was safe, but he was too far gone to care if anyone overheard. Let the whole damned household come down upon them. He would declare himself to all the servants. To everyone who cared to listen. Because this woman—Joceline Yorke—was meant to be his.

Another thrust, and he lost himself inside her, the rush up his spine intense as fireworks unleashed across a dark sky. The pleasure was so exquisite that stars speckled his vision. Holding her tightly to him, Quint filled her with his spend, gasping her name into the night.